CHAPTER ONE

"But you are too young for the circle?" Nemi cried.

"If I am, then you are too young for that bracelet you've

been eying! You're fourteen—the same as me." His name

was the same as hers, too, for she was his twin sister. He

refused to use that name now, for he no longer considered

himself to be a child.

In fact he had already chosen his manhood name: Neq.

Neq the Sword—as soon as he proved himself in the battle

circle.

Nemi bit her lip, making it artfully red. She was full-

bodied but small, like him, and could not term herself adult

until she had borrowed the bracelet of a warrior for at least

a night. After that she would shed her childhood name and

assume the feminine form of the warrior she indulged. Be-

tween bracelets she would be nameless—but a woman.

And twice a woman when she bore a baby.

"Bet I make it before you do!" she said. But then she

smiled.

He tugged one of her brown braids until she made a

musical trill of protest. He let go and walked to the circle

where two warriors were practicing: a sticker and a staffer.

It was a friendly match for a trivial point. But the metal

weapons flashed in the sunlight and the beat of the weap-

ons' contacts sounded across the welkin.

This was what he lived for. Honor in the circle! He had

taken a sword from the rack in a crazy hostel four years

ago, though it was so heavy he could hardly swing it, and

had practiced diligently since. His father, Nem the Sword,

had been pleased to train him, and it was excellent train-

ing, but he had never been allowed in a real circle.

Today he was fourteen! He and his sister were no

longer bound by parental conventions, according to the

code of the nomads. He could fight; she could borrow a

bracelet. Whenever either was ready.

The sticker scored on the staffer, momentarily stunning

him, and the two stepped out of the circle. "I'm hot today!"

the sticker cried. "Gonna put my band on someone. That

girlchild, maybe—Nem's kid."

They hadn't noticed Neq. His sister's challenge, "Bet I

make it before you do," meant nothing. But though they

were close as only twins could be, their rivalry was also

strong. Neq had a pretext to act.

"Before you put your band on Nem's girlchild," he said

loudly, startling both men, "suppose you put your stick on

Nem's boychild. If you can."

The sticker smiled to cover his embarrassment. "Don't

tempt me, junior. I wouldn't want to hurt a nameless

child."

Neq drew his sword and stepped into the circle. The

weapon looked large on him, because of his small stature.

"Go ahead. Hurt a child."

"And have to answer to Nem? Kid, your dad's a good

man in the circle. I don't want to owe him for roughing

up his baby. Wait till you're of age."

"I'm of age today. I stand on my own recognisance."

That silenced the sticker, because he wasn't familiar

with the word. "You aren't of age," the staffer said, look-

ing down at him. "Anybody can see that."

At this point Nem approached, trailed by his daughter.

"Your boy is asking for trouble," the staffer told him.

"Hig don't want to hurt him, but—"

"He's of age," Nem said regretfully. He was not a large

man himself, but the assurance with which he wore his

sword suggested his size in the circle. "He wants his man-

hood. I can't deny him longer."

"See?" Neq demanded, smirking. "You prove your stick

on me, before you prove anything on my sister."

All three men stiffened. That had been a nasty jibe.

Now Hig the Stick would have to fight, for otherwise

Nem himself might challenge him to keep Nemi chaste.

It was no secret that the sworder was protective toward

both his children, but particularly toward his pretty

daughter.

Hig approached the circle, drawing his stocks. "I gotta

do it," he said apologetically.

Nemi sidled near. "You idiot!" she whispered fiercely at

Neq. "I was only fooling."

"Well, / wasn't!" Neq replied, though now he felt shaky

and uncertain. "Here is my weapon, Hig."

Hig looked at Nem, shrugged, and came to the white

ring. He towered over Neq, handsome and muscular. But

he was not an expert warrior; Neq had watched him fight

before.

Hig stepped inside. Neq came at him immediately,

covering his nervousness with action. He feinted with his

blade in the manner he had practiced endlessly, emulating

the technique of his father. The sticker jumped away, and

Neq grinned to show greater confidence than he felt. It

had actually worked!

He drove at Hig's middle while the man was catching

his balance. He knew that thrust would be blocked, and

the next, but it was best to maintain the offensive as vigor-

ously as possible. Otherwise he'd be forced to the defen-

sive, which did not favor the sword. Especially against the

quick sticks.

But he scored.

Adrenaline had made him swift. The sword thrust inches

deep into Hig's abdomen. The man cried out horribly and

twisted away—the worst thing he could have done. Blood

welled out as the sword wrenched loose. Hig fell to the

ground, dropping his sticks, clutching the gaping mouth

in his belly.

Neq stood dazed. He had never expected it to be this

easy—or this gruesome. He had intended the thrust as

another ploy, braced to get clipped a few times while he

searched for a genuine opening. To have it end this way—

"Hig yields," the staffer said. That meant Neq could

leave the circle without further mayhem. Ordinarily the

man who remained in the circle longest was- the victor,

regardless what happened inside, since some were clever

at feigning injury as a tactical ruse, or at striking back

despite wounds.

He was abruptly sick. He stumbled away from the circle,

heedless of the spectacle he made. He retched, getting

vomit in his nose. Now, calamitously, he understood why

his father had been so cautious about the circle.

The sword was no toy, and combat was no game.

He looked up to find Nemi. "It was awful!" she said.

But she was not condemning him. She never did that

when the matter was important. "But I guess you won.

You're a man now. So I fetched this from the hostel for

you."

She held out a gold bracelet, the emblem of adulthood.

Neq leaned against her sisterly bosom, crying. "It

wasn't worth it," he said.

After a while she took a cloth and cleaned him up, and

then he donned the bracelet.

But it was worth it. Hig did not die. He was packed off

to the crazy hospital and the prognosis was favorable.

Neq wore the invaluable bracelet clamped around his left

wrist, proud of its weight, and his friends congratulated

him on his expertise and assumption of manhood. Even

Nemi confessed that she was relieved to have had her

liaison with the sticker broken up; she hadn't liked Hig

that well anyway. She could wait for womanhood—weeks,

if need be!

There was a manhood party for Neq, where he an-

nounced his name, which was duly posted on a hostel

bulletin board for the crazies to record. There was no

eligible girl in this group, so he was unable to consum-

mate his new status in the traditional fashion. But the

truth was that he was as leary as was his sister of the actual

plunge. Man-man in the circle was straight-forward. Man-

woman in the bed . . . that could wait.

So he sang for them, his fine tenor impressing everyone.

Nemi joined him, her alto harmonizing neatly. They were

no longer technically brother and sister, but such ties did

not sever cleanly at the stroke of a sword.

A few days later he commenced his manhood trek: a

long hike anywhere, leaving his family behind. He was

expected to fight, perfecting his craft, and to move his

bracelet about, becoming a man of experience. He might

return in a month or a year or never; the hiatus would

establish the change of circumstance, so that all nomads

would respect him as an individual. Never again would

he be "Nem's kid." He was a warrior.

It was a glorious moment, this ceremony of departure,

but he had to hide the choke in his throat as he bid

farewell to Nem and Nema and Nemi, the family he had

set aside. He saw tears forming in his sister's eyes, and

she could not speak, and she was beautiful, and he had to

turn away before he was overcome similarly, but it was

good.

He marched. The hostels in this region were about

twenty miles apart—easy walking distance, but not if a

man tarried overlong. And Neq tended to tarry, for many

things were new to him: the curves and passes of the trail,

unfamiliar because he had never seen them alone before,

and the alternating pastures and forests and the occa-

sionally encountered warriors. It was dark by the time

he found his first lodging.

And lonely, for the hostel was empty. He made do for

himself, using the facilities the crazies had provided. The

crazies: so-called because their actions made no sense.

They had fine weapons that they did not use, and excel-

lent food they did not eat, and these comfortable hostels

they never slept in. Instead they set these things out un-

guarded for any man to take. If everything were removed

from a hostel, the crazies soon brought more, with no

word of protest. Yet if a man fought with his sword

outside the circle reserved for combat, or slew others

with the bow, or barred another from a hostel, and if no

one stopped him, the crazies cut off their supplies. It was

as though they did not care whether men died, but how

and where. As though death by arrow were more morbid

than death by sword. Thus there was only one word for

them: crazy. But the wise warrior humored their foibles.

The hostel itself was a thirty-foot cylinder standing as

high as a man could reach, with a cone for a roof. Some-

how the cone caught the sunlight and turned it into

power for the lights and machines within. Inside there

was a fat column, into which toilet facilities and food-

storage and cooking equipment were set, j and vents to

blow cool air or hot, depending on the need.

Neq took meat from the freezer and cooked it in the

oven. He drew a cup of milk from the spout. As he ate he

contemplated the racks of bracelets, clothing, and weapons.

All this for the taking without combat! Crazy!

At last he pulled down a bunk from the outer wall and

slept, covering his head from the stillness.

In the morning he prepared a pack with replacement

socks and shirt, but did not bother with extra pantaloons

or jackets or sneakers. Dirt did not matter, but the items

that became sweatsoaked did need changing every so

often or discomfort resulted. He also packed bread and

the rest of the meat: waste was another thing the crazies

were sensitive about, despite their own colossal waste in

putting this all out for plunder. Finally he took a bow

and a tent-package, for he intended to do some hunting

and camping on this trek. The hostels were .fine for occa-

sional use, but the typical nomad preferred to be inde-

pendent.

The second night he camped, but it was still lonely and

he had forgotten to take mosquito repellent. The third

night he used a hostel, but he had to share with two other

warriors, a sworder and a clubber. It was friendly, and

they did not talk down to him though they had to "be aware

of his youth. The three practiced in the circle a bit, and

both men complimented Neq on his skill: meaning he still

was a novice. In serious combat no compliments were

needed; the skill spoke for itself.

The fourth night he found a woman. She prepared a

meal for him that was immeasurably superior to his own

makings, but did not make any other overtures, and he

found himself too shy to proffer his bracelet. She was as

tall as he, and older, and not really pretty. He took a

shower in her presence so she could see he had hair on

his genitals, and they slept in adjacent bunks, and in the

morning she wished him good fortune in a motherly

fashion and he went on. And cursed himself for not initi-

ating his bracelet, at the same time knowing he was even

more afraid of somehow mishandling it and being ridi-

culed. How could a man feign experience in such a matter?

The fifth day he arrived early at a hostel set near a

beautiful small lake, and a man was there. By his fair,

unblemished features he was not much older than Neq,

and he was not substantially larger, but he had the bearing

of a seasoned warrior.

"I am Sol of All Weapons," he announced. "I contest

for mastery."

This set Neq back. Mastery meant the loser would join

the tribe of the winner. Because it was a voluntary con-

vention, it-did not violate the crazies' stricture against

deprivation of personal freedom, but a man honor-bound

was still bound. Neq had only fought once and practiced

some, and didn't trust his luck in serious combat. Not so

soon, anyway. He didn't want to join a tribe so soon, and

had no use for a tribe of his own.

"You use all weapons?" he asked, putting off the im-

plied challenge. "Sword, staff, sticks—all?"

Sol nodded gravely.

"Even the star?" He glanced at the morning star maces

on the weapons rack.

Sol nodded again. It seemed he wasn't much for conver-

sation.

"I don't want to fight," Neq said. "Not for mastery. I—I

just achieved my manhood last week."

Sol shrugged, amenable.

About dusk a woman showed up. She wore the sarong

of availability, but she was if anything less young and less

pretty than the one Neq had met before. She must have

borrowed many bracelets in her time, yet no man had

retained her. Sol paid her no attention; he was without

his own bracelet, showing he was married. So it was up to

Neq again—and again he did nothing.

The woman prepared supper for them both, at this was

the function of the available distaff. She had the same

assurance about her cooking that Sol did about his weapons.

This must be her territory, so that she was used to catering

to any men who came here, hoping that some would prefer

capability to beauty and would leave the bracelet on her.

No woman ever took her bracelet directly from the rack; it

had to come from a man.

Before the meal was served, a third man arrived. He

was a large warrior, paunchy, gruff, with many scars. "I

am Mok the Star," he said.

"Sol of All Weapons."

"Neq the Sword."

The girl said nothing; it was not her place. She made

another setting at the table.

"I contest for mastery," Sol said.

"You have a tribe? This boy and who else?"

"Not Neq. My tribe is training in the badlands."

"The badlands!" Mok's surprise matched Neq's own.

"No one goes there!"

"Nevertheless," Sol said.

"The kill-spirits—"

"Do you question my word?" Sol demanded.

Mok bridled at the tone. "Everyone knows—"

"I have to agree," Neq said—and was immediately aware

that he had spoken out of turn. This was not his quarrel.

"In the circle you challenge my word!" Sol said. He

glanced at the rotating transparent door, noting that it was

dark outside. "Tomorrow."

Mok and Neq exchanged glances. Both were stuck.

"Tomorrow," Mok agreed. "For mastery." Then as an

afterthought: "But you will see my weapon is not for

games."

The girl smiled at Mok. He smiled back, stroking his

bracelet. And that night Sol and Neq pulled down bunks

from the wall on the east side, while Mok took the woman

to the west side, putting his bracelet on her wrist.

Neq lay in the dark, listening, feeling guilty for it. But

he couldn't really tell anything from the sounds.

Sol had a barrow filled with weapons. "What would

you face in the circle?" he asked Mok.

"You really use them all? Let's have the star, then."

Sol brought out his ball and chain. Neq was fascinated.

He had never seen a star in action, and had never heard

of a star-star encounter in the circle. The weapon was

unreliable but terrifying, as it could not be used defen-

sively. Either the heavy spiked ball connected or it didn't,

and the outcome of the battle depended on that. Serious

injury was a probability, in this match,

The two men entered the circle on opposite sides, each

whirling his deadly steel ball over his head so rapidly that

the short chains were blurs. Now the stars were beautiful,

flashing the sunlight in rings of fire as the men's torsos

flexed rhythmically. The fight had to be short, for the out-

ward pulling weight of the ball would rapidly tire the arm.

It was short. The two bright arcs intersected, the chains

crossed, the balls spun about each other fiercely, striking

sparks. Both Mok and Sol jumped as their chains yanked—

but it was Sol who hung on to his star. Mok's handle slipped

from his grasp, and he was disarmed.

Neq realized that this was exactly what Sol had in-

tended. He had deliberately engaged the other weapon, not

trying for the man at all, and had jerked sharply the

moment contact was made. Mok had expected the entangle-

ment to interfere with both warriors, so that he could use

his weight to advantage in the clinch. Sol's strategy and

timing had been superior.

Or could it have been sheer luck?

"What would you face?" Sol asked Neq.

Already! Not the star, certainly! Was it courtesy or con-

fidence the man showed? What to answer!

A sword or dagger in a skilled hand could hurt him

severely, like Hig. The sticks were blunt, but the pair of

them could rattle his brain. The club was blunt and slow,

but a real mauler when it connected. The staff—

'The staff!" One piece, slow, no edges, safe.

Sol calmly brought out his staff.

They entered the circle and sparred. Neq felt guilty for

his cowardice. A real warrior would have chosen to oppose

his own weapon, so the threats were equal. The quarterstaff

was safe, but hard to circumvent. Neq feinted—

When he came to, his head was throbbing. He was on

a bunk in the hostel. The woman wearing Mok's bracelet—

Moka—was sponging his face.

Neq refrained from asking what had happened. Obvi-

ously he had been felled by a blow he had never seen.

Could Mok have struck him from behind? No—that would

have been a gross violation of the circle code, and there

had been no evidence that either Sol or Mok were the type

to practice or tolerate such dishonor. The staff must have

passed his guard—

He touched his head. The welt reminded him. An

astonishingly deft maneuver, the staff avoiding his sword

as if it were fog, whipping in—ouch!

Well, he was a member of Sol's tribe now. The badlands

tribe. If there were kill-spirits there, they hadn't hurt Sol

much! On balance, it wasn't such a bad outcome. Nem

had always said there were advantages to serving a strong

leader. What a man lost in independence he gained in

security. Provided he joined a good tribe.

Neq wasn't quite confident he had joined a good one,

for there remained some doubt whether Sol was an excel-

lent warrior or merely lucky. But Neq put the best face

on it: would he have let himself be taken by a fluke?

He traveled with Mok, following instructions, while Sol

continued in the opposite direction. Mok had reclaimed

his bracelet after the second night, and Neq didn't ques-

tion him. Maybe the man just didn't care to take a wife to

the badlands, though Sol said the kill-spirits—he called

them roents—had gone back beyond the camp. They were

on the trail several days.

Sol's tribe, or at least the portion of it they joined,

seemed to consist of about thirty men encamped in and

about another hostel under the general eye of his wife

Sola. She was a sultry beauty of about sixteen, inclined to

sharpness when addressed and brooding silence at other

times. But she wore her gold bracelet proudly.

For two weeks they tarried there, their numbers aug-

mented by other converts Sol sent back. A number of

men had families, so that the drain on the supplies of the

hostel was considerable. They hunted with bow and arrow

in the forest to supplement those waning rations, though

twice the crazy van came to restock them.

The crazies were as funny in person as their name indi-

cated: strangely garbed, unarmed, almost devoid of muscle,

and ludicrously clean. Yet their truck was a monster,

capable of crushing many warriors if misdirected. Why

should they act like servants to the nomads, when they

could so easily assume power? Some thought it was because

the crazies were weak and foolish, but Neq doubted that

it could be that simple.

Eventually Sol returned with another fifteen men, swell-

ing the tribe to over fifty. Then the whole group marched

—to the badlands. Neq viewed the red crazy warners with

alarm, knowing they marked the boundaries of the kill-

spirits as surveyed by the crazy click boxes. But nothing

happened.

A camp had been established in the wilderness beside

a river, with a flooded trench around it. The leader of this

camp was Tyi of Two Weapons; but the man who really

ran it was Sos the Weaponless. Sos drilled the men merci-

lessly, setting up subtribes for each weapon and ranking

each man according to his skill. Neq began as the bottom

sworder of twenty, chagrined, but he prospered under the

training and rose eventually to fourth of fifty. The camp

was growing all the time, as Sol traveled and sent more

warriors. There was no doubt of the tribe's power now;

he had never seen such discipline.

Strange that it was all the doing of a man who would

not fight in the circle himself. Sos obviously had an

enormous store of information about combat, and he was

no weakling physically. Yet he kept a stupid little bird on

his shoulder, the ridicule of all the tribe, and obviously

loved Sola without admitting it. Neq once saw her go to

his tent in winter and stay there until dawn. The whole

situation was incredible.

When spring came, the tribe was ready to move out as

a unit, and Neq was a ranking member. He was eager for

the promised conquest.

Only one thing marred his success: he had not yet had

the' courage to offer his bracelet to a girl. He wanted to,

but he was not yet fifteen, and looked thirteen, and a live

naked woman was just too much for him to contemplate.

The mistakes he might make!

Sometimes he dreamed of Sola. It wasn't that he loved

her, or even liked her; it was that she was a lusciously

constructed female who stayed in another man's tent though

her husband was master of the tribe. Dishonor . . . but .

excruciatingly tantalizing! She was the kind to keep a

secret....

That was one reason he had improved so much as a

sworder: he spent almost all of his free time practicing,

while others allowed themselves to be diverted by romantic

concerns. They thought him dedicated, but he was tor-

mented.

Some day—some day he would really be a man!

Neq prospered in battle, too, winning his matches easily.

His first match was against the first sword of a smaller

tribe. The other master had not wanted to fight, and Neq

had been one of the carefully picked hecklers who taunted

him into a commitment. His opponent in the circle was

good, and Neq was so nervous he feared his weapon

would quiver—but incredibly his intensive winter's train-

ing had made him better. Sos had drilled him until he was

furious, not only against swords but against all other

weapons, and had matched him in pairs with others to

fight other pairs. It had been tedious, hard work, and since

the practice sessions were never for blood he had only

Sos's opinion to certify his actual skill. But that opinion

was justified; as Neq saw the little crudities of the other

man's technique he knew it was all true. Clumsy victories

and confused losses were no longer Neq's lot. He really was

a master sworder, not far behind Tyi himself, who was

first.

Then, suddenly, Sos the Trainer left. It was an ironic

question who mourned his departure more: Sol or Sola.

Had Sol found out? But the tribe continued operating as

Sos had organized it. Sola birthed a baby girl, though

nine months before her husband had been away a great

deal....

The tribe became so large through conquests that it

had to be broken up into ten subtribes formed into an

empire. One was under Sol and the others under his major

lieutenants: Tyi of Two weapons, who had the finest

warriors; Sav the Staff, who took over the badlands camp

as a training area and was the other songsinger of the

empire; Tor the Sword, with his great black beard . . . and,

gratifying, Neq himself. Each subtribe went its own way,

acquiring more warriors, but all were subject to Sol

ultimately.

At first it was wonderful, for Neq's fondest dreams of

glory had been exceeded. He was chief of a hundred and

fifty warriors, which was more than most independent

tribes boasted. He visited his family and showed off his

status. His sister had married and moved away, but home-

town doubters he gladly convinced. He packed half a

dozen of them off to the badlands camp, and even demon-

strated his skill against his father Nem, though not for

blood or mastery. Neq was the finest sworder this area

had ever seen, and it was good to have it known.

But in a year such things palled, for administrative duties

kept him from practicing in the circle as much as he liked,

and there seemed to be rivalries and enemies on every side.

He decided that he was not, at heart, a leader. He was a

fighter.

By the end of the second year he was heartily sick of it,

but there seemed to be no way down the ladder. He longed

just to run away by himself, meeting people honestly,

without the barrier his present responsibility erected.

And—he still wanted a woman. He was sixteen now,

more than man enough—but the very notion of offering

his bracelet to a girl, any girl, filled him with dread. If

one would ask him, make it clear she was amenable . . .

but none did.

Neq suspected that he was the shyest man in all the

empire—and for no reason. He could command men with-

out qualm, he could meet any weapon with confidence, he

could run a tribe of hundreds. But to put his bracelet on a

woman ... he wanted to, but he couldn't.

Then disaster came to the empire. A nameless, weapon-

less warrior appeared—one who entered the circle and

defeated the empire's finest with his bare hands. It seemed

impossible—but the Nameless first took Sav's tribe, break-

ing Sav's arm; then Tyi's tribe, shattering Tyi's knees; then

Tor's—by killing Bog the Club, the one warrior even Sol

had not beaten. And finally he brought Sol himself to the

circle, and took all the empire and Sola too for his own,

sending Sol to die with his girlchild at the mountain.

Neq's tribe had been ranging far from the scene of that

action, and by the time he got there the issue had been

settled and Sol was gone. There was nothing for him to

do but go along with the new Master. Tyie remained sec-

ond in command, acting in the name of the grotesque

Weaponless conqueror, who seemed to have little interest

'in the routine affairs of empire. "Go where you will," Tyi

advised Neq privately. "Battle where you will. But no more

for mastery. Query your warriors and release any who

wish to leave, asking no questions. The Nameless has so

decreed."

"Why did he conquer, then?" Neq demanded, amazed.

Tyi only shrugged, disgusted. Neq knew Tyi much pre-

ferred Sol's way—but he was a man of honor to match

his station, and would not act against the new Master.

So it came to pass. For six years the empire stagnated.

Neq turned over his administrative duties to other men

and took to wandering alone, incognito. Sometimes he

fought in the circle—but his blinding skill with the sword

made such encounters meaningless, and destroyed his alias.

And still his bracelet had never left his wrist, though he

dreamed of women, all women.

At the age of twenty-four, with a decade of nomadic

brilliance behind him, Neq the Sword was over the hill.

He had no present and no future, like the empire.

Then the Master invaded the mountain, using his own

and Tyi's subtribes—and disappeared. Tyi returned with

news that the mountain fortress had been gutted; that the

men who went there in the future really would die, whatever

had been the case in the past. But Tyi could not claim the

leadership of the empire. No one had defeated the

Weaponless. He might or might not return.

The chiefs met—Tyi, Neq, Sav, Tor and the others—

and formally suspended the empire, pending that return.

Each subtribe would become a full tribe, but they would

not fight each other.

Neq wanted only freedom, so he dissolved his own tribe

completely. The top warriors immediately began forming

their own tribelets and moving out. Neq, truly independent

for the first time in his life, wandered alone again.

* * *

The third time he came to a lodge in a hostel and found

it gutted and broken, Neq grew perplexed and angry. Who

was doing this, and why? The hostels had always been

sacrosanct, open for all travelers all the time. When one

was destroyed, every person suffered. Too much of this

would hurt the entire nomad society—that had supposedly

been saved by the razing of the mountain underworld.

There was no hope of catching the perpetrators; the

deed was weeks past. Easier to inquire of the crazies them-

selves, who were often knowledgeable about nomad affairs

but who never acted positively.

Neq, missionless until this moment, had found a mission

of a sort.

The local crazy outpost was under siege. Its foolish glass

windows bad been broken in, and now fragments of wood

and metal furniture barred them ineffectively. The flower

beds around the building had been trampled. Two unkempt

warriors patrolled in semicircles at a distance, one on either

side, and three more chatted around a nearby campfire.

Neq accosted the nearest of the marchers, a large

sworder. "Who are you and what are you doing?"

"Beat it, punk," the man said. "This is private soil."

Neq was not young or impulsive any more. He replied

calmly: "It looks to me as though you are molesting a crazy

outpost. Have you any reason?"

The man drew his blade. "This is my reason. Got it clear

now, shorty?"

Neq saw that the others had been alerted, and were

coming at a run. They were all sworders. But he held his

ground. "Are you challenging me in the circle?"

"Hey, this guy's a troublemaker!" the man cried, amused.

"Cut off his balls—if he has any!" one of the others said,

approaching with weapon drawn.

Neq was assured by this time that these were noncircle

outlaws: clumsy fighters who banded together informally

to prey on whoever was helpless. Such wretches had never

been tolerated within the crazy demesnes before, and the

empire had systematically run them down'~and executed

them. That is, they were forced to meet a capable warrior

in the circle, contesting for life. There was no sense in

having the crazies halt maintenance because of the actions

of outlaws.

But the empire was gone now, and the weeds were

encroaching. He would have no compunction about cutting

down such cowards. Still, he made sure: "Give me your

names."

They ringed him now. "We'll give you a bleeding gut!"

the first man said, and the rest chuckled.

"Then I give you mine. I am Neq the Sword." He drew

his weapon. "The first to move against me defines the

circle."

"Hey—I've heard of him!" one man cried "He's danger-

ous! Got a tribe—"

But already the others, no students of the empire heir-

archy, were closing in, thinking to overwhelm him by

their dishonorable mass attack.

Neq swung into action the moment they moved. He

thrust ferociously at the one directly in front, driving his

point into the man's unguarded chest and yanking it out

again immediately. Then he whirled the bloody blade to

the left, catching the next man at the neck before he could

raise his sword in defense. Such tactics would never have

worked against competent warriors—but these were com-

bat oafs. He swung right, and this man had his guard up,

so that sword clanged on sword.

Neq leaped away, passing between the two bleeding men.

Two remained, for the fifth had fled after recognizing him.

Neq spun to face them as they looked at their fallen

comrades, appalled. Novices frightened of blood!

"Take your wounded and get out of here," he snapped at

them. "If I see you again, I kill you both."

They hesitated, but they were inept cowards and he

knew it. He turned his back on them contemptuously and

went to the outpost building. He knocked on the door.

There was no answer.

'The siege is lifted," he called. "I am Neq the Sword—

Warrior of the circle. You have me in your records."

Still silence. Neq knew that the crazies kept track of all

the nomad leaders, and had duplicate dossiers.

"Stand before the window," a voice called at last.

Neq walked to the shattered window. He saw that the

rough sworders were stumbling away with their comrades.

"There is a Neq-sword listed," another voice said. "Ask

him who his father is."

"Nem the Sword," Neq answered without waiting for

the question. These crazies! "And my sister is Boma; she

took Born the Dagger's band and bore two boys by him."

"We have no record of that here," the second voice said

after a pause. "But it sounds authentic. Did he serve in

the nomad empire of Sol of All Weapons?"

"Born? No. But if you saw my action of a moment ago,

you know / served."

"We have to trust him," the first voice said.

Neq returned to the door. There was the sound of

laboriously shifting furniture. Keys. It opened.

Two old men stood within. They were typical crazies:

cleanshaven, hair shorn, parted and combed, spectacles,

white shirts with sleeves, long trousers with creases, stiff

polished leather shoes. Ludicrous apparel for any type of

combat. Both were shaking visibly, obviously unused to

personal duress and afraid of Neq himself.

"How did you hold them off?" Neq asked, genuinely

curious. A nomad in such decrepit condition would begin

excavating his caim.

One crazy picked up a vaguely swordlike instrument.

"This is a power drill, operating off house current. I turned

it on and put it against any part of the body that entered the

building. It was sickening but effective."

"And we do have weapons," the other said. "But we

aren't adept at their use."

Obviously. "How long has this been going on?"

"For two days. We've had similar attacks recently, but

our supply trucks were able to disperse them. This time

the truck did not come."

"Probably ambushed, boarded and wrecked," Neq said.

"I found three gutted hostels too. But those jackals never

had the nerve to attack you before. What's the reason?"

"We don't know. Supplies have been short, and we have

not been able to stock our hostels sufficiently. The nomads

seem to have been making war against us."

"Not the nomads! Those were outlaws!"

They peered at him dubiously. "We don't~x[uestion your

values, but—"

"My values aren't hurting," Neq said. "You have evi-

dence that regular warriors are rampaging against you?"

"It seems so."

"But that's suicidal! We are not completely dependent

on the hostels, but. they do make possible a special way of

life. Their sanctity has always been honored."

"So we thought. But as you have seen—"

Neq sighed. "I have seen. Well, I want you to know that

I do not condone this destruction, and I'm sure most

nomads' agree with me. How may I help you?"

The two exchanged timid glances. "Would you be will-

ing to bear a message to our main depot?"

"Gladly. But the way things are going, you need pro-

tection here. If I go, you won't survive long."

"We can not desert our post," one man said sadly.

"Better that than death," Neq pointed out.

"It is a matter of principle."

He shrugged. "That's why you are called the crazies.

You are crazy."

"If you will carry the message—"

"I'll take the message. But first I think I'd better see to

your defenses. I can round up a few men—"

"No. We have never worked that way."

"Crazies, look," Neq exclaimed, exasperated. "If you

don't work that way now, your post will surely and

shortly be a smoking hole, and you buried under it. You

have to take some note of reality."

"A compelling case," the man admitted. "You have ob-

viously had tactical experience. But if we do not function

according to our philosophy, we have no point in func-

tio'ning at all."

Neq shook his head. "Crazy," he repeated, admiring

their perverse courage. "Give me your message."

The main post was a school. The message was for one

Doctor Jones, and he meant to deliver it personally to the

man.

A blonde crazy girl sat at a desk as though guarding

her master from intrusions. "And who is calling?" she

asked, her professional eye analyzing him comprehen-

sively. She was quite clean, and that was mildly annoying

too.

"Neq the Sword."

"N E K or-N E G?"

He merely stared at her.

"Oh, illiterate," she said after a moment. "Dr. Jones

will see you now."

He entered the interior office and handed over the

written message. The aged, balding crazy within broke

the seal immediately and studied the scribbled sheet of

paper. He looked grave. "I wish we had been able to

install telephonic cables. So our trucks have not been

getting through?" he obviously knew the answer.

'Those two men are probably dead by now," Neq said.

"Crazies just won't listen to reason. I offered to protect

them, but—"

"Our ways differ from yours. Otherwise we would be

nomads ourselves—as many of us have been, in youth."

"You were a warrior?" Neq asked incredulously. "What

weapon?"

"Sword, like you. But that was forty years ago."

"Why did you give it up?"

"I discovered a superior philosophy."

Oh. "Well, those crazies at the outposts are dying by

their philosophies. You'd better call them in."

"I shall."

At least the crazy master had some sense! "Why is this

happening? Attacks on your posts, hostels—it was never

this way before."

"Never in your memory, perhaps. I could give you an

answer, but not a completely satisfactory one." Dr. Jones

sat behind his desk and made figures with his hands. He

had long spindly wrinkled fingers. "We have been unable

to supply the hostels properly in recent months. Normal

attrition thus reduces some of these to virtual uselessness

for travelers. When that happens, some men react ad-

versely—and lacking the stability of civilization, they

strike out senselessly. They are hungry, they want cloth-

ing and weapons—and none are available. They feel they

have been unfairly denied."

"But why can't you supply them anymore?"

"Because our own supplies have been cut off. We are

chiefly distributors; we do not manufacture the imple-

ments. We do have a number of mechanized farms—but

food is only part of our service."

"You get the weapons and things from somebody else?"

Neq had not realized this.

"Until recently, yes. But we have had no shipments for

several months, and our own resources are practically

exhausted. So we are frankly unable to provide for the

nomads, with the unfortunate results you have noted."

"Didn't they tell you what happened? Your suppliers, I

mean?"

"We have had ho contact Television broadcasts ceased

abruptly, so there seems to have been a severe power

loss. Our suppy trucks have not returned. I fear that now

the very restlessness our lapse promotes is rebounding

against us: a feedback effect. The situation is serious."

"Your whole hostel system will break down?"

"And, I am very much afraid, our schools and hospitals

and farms. Yes. We cannot withstand the concerted at-

tacks of so many armed men. Unless we are able to re-

solve this matter expeditiously, I have grave reservations

about the stability of our society in its present form."

"You're saying we're all in trouble?"

Dr. Jones nodded. "You are succinct."

"What you need is someone to go find out what's wrong

at the other end. Someone who can fight. If your truck

drivers are like the men I met at the outpost—"

Jones nodded again.

"I'll go, if you like."

"You are most generous. But you would not be con-

versant with the details. We would require a written

report—"

"I can't write. But I could guard a literate."

Jones sighed. "I will not claim your offer is unenticing.

But it would be unethical for us to use you in this fash-

ion. And you might have difficulty protecting a 'crazy'."

"You're right. I can't help a man who won't listen."

"So I thank you for your service in bearing this mes-

sage." Jones stood up. "You are welcome to remain with

us for as long as you desire. But I doubt that you are in-

clined toward the quiet life."

"I doubt it's quiet anymore," Neq said. "But it does

differ from my—my philosophy." He put his hand on the

hilt of his sword. "By this I live."

"Doctor."

Both men glanced over to see the blonde girl in the

doorway. "Yes, Miss Smith?" Dr. Jones said in his

question-statement tone.

"I listened over the intercom," she said, looking re-

belliously guilty. "I overheard Mr. Neg's offer—"

"Neq," Neq said, pronouncing it carefully. "Neq the

Sword."

"With a Q, I'm sure," Jones said, smiling. "One of the

most skilled of the nomad swordsmen today."

Neq was startled, for Dr. Jones had given no hint of his

information before. But of course an ex-sworder would

keep track of such things, and Neq was in the crazy

records.

"I could go with him," Miss Smith said, and a flush

came to her rather pretty features. "I haven't entirely

forgotten the wild life—and I could make the report."

Jones looked pained. He had an excellent face for it.

"My dear, this is not the type of enterprise—"

"Doctor, you know our whole structure will collapse if

we don't do somethingi" she cried. "We can't go on much

longer."

Neq stayed out of this debate, watching the girl. She

was young but quite attractive in her animation. Her two

breasts were conical under her light crazy sweater and

her skirted legs were well proportioned. She was worth a

man's contemplation despite her outlandish attire. He

had heard that "Miss" applied to a crazy woman signified

her eligibility for marriage; they used words instead of

bracelets.

Jones faced Neq. "This is somewhat awkward—but she

is technically correct. Our need is imperative, and she

would seem to be equipped to do the job. Of course it is

not incumbent on you to—"

"I can guard a woman as easily as a crazy man," Neq

said. "If she'll do what I say. I can't have her standing on

'principle' when a warrior's charging us."

"I'll do what you say," she said quickly.

"My mind is not easy," Jones said. "But we do require

the information. Even a negative report-^which I very

much fear is to be anticipated—would enable us to make

positive plans to salvage a very limited sphere. If both of

you are amenable—"

Neq considered more carefully. How far would he travel

in a day, fettered to this doll-pretty crazy woman? She

would faint at the sight of blood, surely, and collapse be-

fore they had walked sixty miles. And the ridicule he

would evoke, marching with a crazy companion, any

crazy, but particularly a female crazy—

"It wouldn't work," he said. And felt a certain familiar

frustration, knowing that his shyness with women had as

much to do with it as logic.

"It has to work," she said. "Dr. Jones can do amazing

things, but only if he has exact information. If you're

worried about my keeping up—we'll take a truck. And I

don't have to look this way. I'm aware of your contempt.

I can dress like a nomad. I'll even put on some dirt—"

Jones almost smiled, but Neq shrugged as though it

wasn't that important to him. If they didn't get there, they

didn't get there. The notion of traveling with a handsome

woman, even a crazy, had its subtle but developing appeal.

This was business, after all; his private problem could

not be permitted to interfere. "All right."

"All right?" She looked surprised.

"Put on some dirt and get your truck and we'll go."

She looked dazedly at Jones. "All right?"

Dr. Jones sighed. "This is against my better judgment.

But if both of you are willing—"

CHAPTER THREE

The change in blonde Miss Smith was amazing. She had

unbound her hair to wear it loose and long in nomad

fashion, and she had the one-piece wraparound of the

available. Gone was the crisp office manner: she spoke

only when addressed, knowing her place in the presence

of a warrior. Had Neq not known her origin, he would

have been fooled. Of course his close experience with

women was meager.

She, however, had to drive the truck. Neq had seen the

crazy vehicles on occasion, but had never actually been

inside one before. The handling of such machinery was

not his forte, obviously. So he rode beside her in the cab,

sword clasped between his knees, and clung to the seat as

the wheels bumped over the ruts. The velocity of the

thing was appalling. He kept expecting it to start panting

and slow to a walk, for no one could run indefinitely! He

had been told a truck could cover in one hour a distance

equivalent to a full day's march, if it had a good track,

and now he believed it.

The road was no pleasure. What suited for foot travel-

ing became hazardous for wheels, particularly at this

speed, and he was privately terrified. Now he understood

why the crazies had always been so fussy about the main-

tenance of their trails, cutting back the brush and remov-

ing boulders. Such natural obstacles were like swinging

clubs to the zooming vehicle. Neq refused to show it, of

course, but his hands were clammy on the sword and his

muscles stiff from tension.

But in time he became acclimatized, and watched Miss

Smith's motions. She controlled the truck by turning a

wheel around: when she pushed the top of it north, the

truck swung north. When she wanted to stop -she pushed

a metal pedal into the floor. Driving was not so difficult

after all!

All day they drove, stopping only to let Neq be sick

from the unaccustomed motion, and to refuel. The first

was mortifying, but Miss Smith pretended not to notice

and in time his gut became resigned. The second was just

a matter of pouring funny smelling liquid she called gaso-

line into the motortank from one of the large metal drums

carried in the back. "Why don't you just pipe it in from

the drums?" he asked, and she admitted she didn't know.

"These trucks were designed and probably built by the

Ancients," she said. "They did a number of inexplicable

things—like making a gas tank far too small for a day's

driving. Maybe they liked pouring gas from cans."

Neq laughed. "That's something! To the crazies, the

Ancients are crazy!"

She smiled, not taking offense. "Sanity seems to be in-

versely proportional to civilization."

Inverse proportion: he knew what that meant, for he

had been drilled like the others in the empire training

camp. They had used numbers to assess combat ranking:

the smaller the number, the higher the warrior stood.

They drove on, until they had to stop to do patchwork

on the road. A gully had formed, the result of some cloud-

burst, and made a tumble of boulders of the roadbed.

Here Neq felt useful, for Miss Smith could not have

budged all those rocks or shoveled enough sand into place

to make the passage.

Despite these delays, Neq estimated that they had come

a good five days march by dusk.

"How much do you normally march?" she inquired in

response to his remark.

"Thirty miles, alone. More if I'm in a hurry. Twenty,

with a tribe."

"So you make it a hundred and fifty miles today."

He worked it out, counting off fingers. He knew how to

count and calculate, but this was a different problem than

the type he normally encountered. "Yes."

"Speedometer says ninety-four," she said. "It must have

seemed faster than it was. On a paved road it would have

been double that."

"The truck keeps track of its own travels?" he asked,

amazed. "Maybe it forgot to count the section between

the tank-filling and the roadwork."

She laughed again. "Maybe! Machines aren't bright."

He had neither worked with nor talked with a woman

this way before, and was surprised to realize that it wasn't

difficult. "How far is this supplier?"

"About a thousand miles from the school, direct. Some-

what farther by these backwoods trails."

He figured again. "So we have about ten days of travel."

"Less than that. Some areas are better than others. Let

me show you our route on the map. I think we've been

through the worst already."

"No."

"No?" She paused with the map in her hand.

"The worst is what stopped your other trucks from

returning."

"Oh." She was prettily pensive. "Well, we'll find out.

The others didn't have an armed guard along."

She opened the map and pointed out lines and patches

of color to him, but it was largely meaningless to Neq,

who could not relate to the continental scope of it. "I can

find the way back, once I've been there," he said.

"That's good enough." She studied the map a bit more,

then put it away with a small sigh.

There were canned and even frozen goods. Miss Smith

lit a little gas stove and heated beans and turnip greens

and bacon, and she opened the little refrigerator and

poured out milk. Neq had never had a woman do for him

on a regular basis, and this was an intriguing experience.

But of course she only looked like a woman; she was a

crazy.

They slept in the truck—he in the back beside the gas

drums, she curled in the cab. She seemed to feel there

would be something wrqng if they both slept in the back,

though there was far more room there and she had to

know that no honorable nomad would disturb her slum-

ber without prior transfer of the bracelet. She could not

know, of course, that Neq had never had relations with

any woman. The only girl he had been close to was his

sister. In fact, had Miss Smith not been a crazy, he would

have been extremely nervous. As it was, he was only

moderately nervous, and relieved to sleep alone.

But in his dreams women were ubiquitous, and he was

not bashful. In his dreams.

The second day of travel was uneventful, and they

made almost two hundred miles. The novelty of riding in

the truck palled, and he stared moodily into the rushing

brush and covertly at Miss Smith's right breast, shaped

under the cloth as she steered. She seemed less like a

crazy, now.

He began to hum to his sword, and when she did not

object he sang to it: the folk songs he had picked up

from happy warriors like Sav the Staff, in the glad days

of the empire's nascence.

Oh, the sons of the Prophet were hardy and bold

And quite unaccustomed to fear.

But the bravest of all was a man so I'm told

Named Abdullah Bulbul Ameer.

The references were meaningless, as were the names,

but the melody always brought pleasure to him and he

responded to the warrior mood of such songs. From time

to time he was tempted to change the words a bit, adapt-

ing to the things he knew, but that forfeited authenticity.

"Oh, the warriors of empire were hardy and bold . . ."

No—songs were inviolate, lest they lose their magic.

After a time he realized with a shock that she was

singing with him, in feminine harmony, the way Nemi

used to do. That jolted him back into silence. Miss Smith

made no comment.

The third day they encountered a barricade. A tree had

fallen across the road.

"That isn't natural." Neq said, alert for trouble. "See—

it has been felled, not blown. No nomad cuts a tree and

leaves it."

She stopped the truck. In a moment men appeared—

unkempt outlaws of the type he had encountered before.

"All right, you crazies—out!" the leader bawled.

"You stay here," Neq said. "This will be unpleasant for

you. Maybe you'd better duck down so you can't see." He

got out in one bound and lifted his weapon. "I am Neq

the Sword," he announced.

This time no one recognized the name. "You think

you're pretty smart, dressing like a man," a big clubber

said. "But we know you're crazies. What's in your truck?"

Miss Smith had not followed his suggestion. Her pale

face showed in the cab window. "Hey!" the leader cried.

"This one's a lady-crazy!"

Neq advanced on his man. "You will not touch this

truck. It is under my protection."

The man laughed harshly and swung his club.

He died laughing.

Neq let him drop and moved to the next, a scarred

dagger. At the same time he watched for bows, for out-

laws were capable of anything. He would have to per-

form some deft maneuvers if arrows came at him. "Run,"

he suggested softly.

The dagger looked at the bleeding clubber corpse and

ran. That was the thing about outlaws: they were easily

frightened.

Neq charged the leader, another dagger. This man, at

least, had some courage. He brought up his knives and

sliced clumsily.

It was axiomatic that a good dagger would lose to a

good sworder when the combat was serious. This man was

not good, and Neq cut him down immediately.

No one else remained. "Scream if you see anything," he

told Miss Smith. "I'm scouting the area." He had to be

sure that all the teeth of the ambush had been drawn

before he tackled the fallen tree.

She just sat there, her features stiff. He had known she

would not like it. Crazies and women were similar in that

respect, and she was both.

He located the outlaw camp. It was empty. The cowardly

dagger had lost no time spreading the word. From the

traces there had been at least two women and four men.

Well, now it was two women and two men—and he

doubted they'd attack any more trucks.

He went back. "It's clear," he told Miss Smith. "Let's

haul this trunk out of our way."

She seemed to wake, then. He surveyed the tree and

decided it was too much for him to move without cutting

in half. He made ready to hack at it with his sword, but

Miss Smith called to him. "There is an easier way."

She brought out a rope and hitched it to the base of

the tree trunk. Then she looped the other end into the

front bumper of the truck. Then she started the motor

and backed the vehicle away slowly until the tree was

dragged out lengthwise along the road. Neq gaped with

a certain confused respect.

She brought a peavy from the back. He limbed the tree

and used the tool to roll the main mass clear of their

path. This was still heavy work, but far more efficient

than his original notion.

He wound the rope and put the peavy away. They got

back into the cab. "Let's move," he said gruffly.

She drove mechanically, not looking at him.

"You surprised me," he said after a while. "I never

thought of using the truck like that."

She didn't answer. He glanced at her, and saw her lips

thin and almost white, her eyes squinting though the

light was not strong.

"I know you crazies don't like violence," he said defen-

sively. "But I warned you not to look. They would have

killed us if I hadn't wiped them out first. They didn't set

that ambush just to say hello."

"It isn't that."

"If we hit any more bands like that, it'll be the same.

That's why your trucks aren't coming back. You crazies

don't fight. You think if you're nice to everyone, no one

will hurt you. Maybe once that was true. But these out-

laws just laugh."

"I know."

"Well, that's the way it is. I'm just doing the job I

promised. Getting the truck through." Still he felt awk-

ward. "I was sick myself, the first time I fought a man

and wounded him. But you get used to it. Better than

getting hit yourself."

She drove for a while in silence. Then she braked the

truck. "I want to show you something," she said, her face

softening.

They got out under the shade of spreading oak trees.

She stood before him, breathing rapidly, her yellow hair

highlighted momentarily by a stray beam of sunshine.

She was as pretty a girl as he had seen, in that pose.

"Come at me."

Neq was abruptly nervous. "I meant no offense to you.

I only tried to explain. I have never attacked a woman."

"Pretend you're an outlaw about to ravish me. What

would you do?"

"I would never—"

"You're shy, aren't you," she said.

It was like a blade sliding wickedly through his de-

fense. Neq stood stricken.

Miss Smith shook her hand—and there was a knife in

it. No lady's vegetable parer—this was a full-length war-

rior's dagger, and her grip on it was neither diffident nor

clumsily tight. There was a way of holding that was a

sure signal of circle readiness, and this was her way.

Instantly Neq's sword was in his hand, his eye on the

other weapon, his weight balanced. One never ignored a

blade held like that!

But Miss Smith did not attack. She unwrapped her

wraparound, revealing one firm fresh breast, and tucked

the knife into a flat holster under her arm. "I just wanted

you to understand," she said.

"I would never have struck you," he said, numbed by

both her weapon-readiness and the glimpse of her torso.

But it sounded ridiculous, for there he stood with sword

ready. He sheathed it quickly.

"Of course not. I checked your file, once I got your

name straight. You were a tribal chieftain, but you never

took a woman. What I meant was: understand about me.

That I was wild once. I'm not really a crazy. Not when it

counts."

"You—used the dagger?"

"When I saw you fighting those brutes—the blood—it

was as though a dozen years had peeled away, and I was

the gamin again. I found the knife in my hand, there in

the cab."

"Twelve years! You fought as a small child?"

Her mouth quirked. "How old do you think I am?"

"Nineteen." It was an unfortunate fact that most mar-

ried women lost their beauty early. At fifteen they were

highly desirable; ten years later they were faded. The

unmarried lacked even that initial freshness. Miss Smith

was obviously not in the first bloom, but still pretty

enough.

"I am twenty-eight, according to Dr. Jones' best esti-

mate. No one knows for sure, since I had no family."

Three years older than Neq himself? That was incred-

ible. "Your breast says nineteen."

"When I was nineteen—" she said, mulling it over.

"When I was nineteen, I met a warrior. A strong, dark

man. Maybe you know of him. Sos—Sos the Rope?"

Neq shook his head. "I knew a Sos once, but he had no

weapon. I don't know what happened to him."

"I would have gone nomad with him—if he had asked

me." She thought for a moment, still breathing quickly. "I

would have gone nomad with anyone."

This was all awkward, and Neq's hands were Clammy,

and he didn't know what to say.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It was the blood, the action—it

made me react in an uncivilized way. I shouldn't have

shown you."

"I thought you were sick. In the cab."

"I was. Emotionally. Let's forget it."

They climbed back into the truck, but he didn't forget

it. He kept trying to coincide that ripe breast with her

advanced age. What secret did the crazies have, to pre-

serve a woman so?

And her knife. That motion had been swift and sure.

She had run wild once; such talents were not readily

come by, and a woman did not carry a weapon unless she

knew how to use it.

Dr. Jones had said that many crazies including himself

had once been nomads. This was one such.

They stopped and had a supper heated on the engine

—that saved -time and fuel—before he brought himself to

the point. "Why did you come with me?"

"The real reason? As opposed to the one I claimed?"

He nodded.

"I suppose I still crave what I can't have. A way of life,

a—a freedom from responsibility. A—a man."

A half-pleasant chill went through him. "There are

crazy men."

"A man," she said with emphasis. "Like you."

"Are—are you asking for my bracelet?"

Even in the dusk he could see the flush rise to her face,

and he hoped his own cheeks were not betraying him as

mercilessly. "A woman doesn't ask."

His heart was beating, and suddenly he desired her

intensely despite her age and her crazy ways. She had

asked, in her fashion, and she was more approachable

than the women he had encountered before. Perhaps be-

cause of the very things that had seemed to put her be-

yond any such connection. A literate, knife-bearing,

twenty-eight year old crazy!

He had come to know her as a person before seriously

considering her as a potential sex object, and that made a

considerable difference. Three days . . . and that was

longer than he had known any other woman this inti-

mately ... except Nemi.

"I never gave my bracelet—even for a night."

"I know. But I don't know why."

"I—was afraid of being refused." He had never spoken

this truth before. "Or that it wouldn't work."

"Would that be so bad? To—fail?" Now he could see

her pulse actually making the clothing quiver rhythmi-

cally. She was as wrought up about this conversation as

he was. That helped, in a way . . . and hurt, in another

way.

"I don't know." It made no sense, intellectually, for he

could face defeat in the circle without such shame. But

with a woman, his fear seemed insurmountable.

"You are handsome enough, strong enough," she said.

"I don't think I've seen a more comely nomad. And you

sing beautifully. I don't think you would be refused."

He studied her yet again, comprehending her meaning.

It was darker now, but his night vision illuminated her

more clearly than ever. He was shivering With tension

and incredulous passion. Slowly he reached his right hand

over to his left wrist, touching the gold band there.

She did not move. Her eyes were on his hands.

He grasped the bracelet, twisting. It slid about his

wrist but did not come away. He would have to spring it

out a little, for that. But his hand would not cooperate.

Miss Smith watched him, the flush remaining on her

face. It enhanced her beauty.

Neq forced his fingers apart as though he were strain-

ing at hand-wrestling and hooked them into the open

section of the band. Slowly he applied pressure. Sweat

trickled down his neck. His arm jerked nervously.

At last he got the metal off. His wrist felt naked, cold.

He lifted the bracelet, seeing the sweat marks on it. He

wiped it ineffectively on his shirt, trying to make it clean.

Then, inch by inch, he carried it toward her.

Miss Smith raised her left hand. Unsteadily their two

arms came together. The gold touched her wrist.

And she snatched her arm away. "No—no—I can'tl"

she cried.

Neq was left with his bracelet extended, refused. It

was the very thing he had feared, all these years.

"Oh Neq, I'm sorry!" she said. "I didn't mean it like

that. I didn't know this would happen."

Neq remained with the bracelet extended, his eyes

fixed on it. He didn't know how he felt.

"It isn't what you think," she said. "I—I'll take it. The

first shock . . ." She raised her wrist again . . . and

dropped it. "I can'tl"

Slowly Neq brought the band back to his own arm,

and clasped it there.

"I'm ashamed," she said. "I never thought—please,

don't be angry."

"I'm not angry," he said around a thick tongue.

"I mean—don't feel rejected. It's me, not you. I never

—I—I'm worse than you. Oh, that sounds awful!"

"You never had a man?" Neq discovered that analyzing

her problem was much easier than doing something about

his own.